The Analysis of Mr Sherlock Holmes
by Atlantianis
Summary: What happens when Sherlock Holmes meets a woman who is a specialized psychologist and a professor in logical observation and memory, a person who can do the exact same thing as himself? M rated for later violence and some sexual content. Part two of this story: /s/9304869/1/Accepting-New-Life
1. An Introduction

**I have never written AND published fan fictions before, so this is exciting! I will just publish the introduction for now, but if people like it or something, I'll just continue publishing it! **

* * *

The sound of a high pitched laughter broke his focus. _What the.._ he thought as he got up from his bed, and exited the bedroom.

"Oh, that would do very well, now, wouldn't it?" the laughter of the woman continued. He stopped at the frame between the kitchen and the main room. John didn't even seem to notice him, completely taken by the woman who stood by the door. She was short, even shorter than John, but she was dressed to even out the difference. A pencil skirt with a red blouse tucked in it perfectly showed off her figure and the difference between her hips, waist and breasts/shoulders. John noticed Sherlock.

"Oh, hi. Yes, I brought a friend home," John said, and Sherlock immediately saw through John's statement, the only reason why she brought her to 221b was because he wanted to sleep with her. She turned around. Make-up put on perfectly, creating her features nearly flawless. Her blue eyes fascinated Sherlock. Unlike his own, piercing and staring blue eyes, and John's warm and kind blue eyes. Her eyes were a mixture between light and dark blue, depending on the lighting, and being full of patterns.

"Hello, nice to meet you-, " she was cut off.

"Yes, well. This friend of yours has dressed in the most obvious way. Her attire put on to show off her figure, and the tempting dark and glossed lips and black and enhanced eyes for making a direct gaze. I dear to say there is more than a friendly _visit_ attached to this greet, " Sherlock said, sitting down in his black leather chair.

"You're absolutely correct," she said, her English was very good, but just enough of a twist on her voice to give away that she was foreign, Scandinavian he presumed. She walked toward Sherlock in his chair, and bowed down to a couple of inches away from his face. "You're absolutely right," she said, and straightened herself up.

"Yes, I know-," Sherlock tried to say, but was cut off.

"And by your attire it's easy to deduct something about you as well. Your suit says you're self-assured, and you're clearly sure about yourself, aren't you? But your baby-blue shirt says it's important for yourself to soften up, therefore you work in a service business. And by the look of the microscope on your kitchen table, you're into forensic, but not a cop, therefore a detective. By a look of your manners you're in the higher classes of the British society, but you apparently don't like it by the looks of your apartment. And you're a previous smoker. How did I do, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock's hand had fallen to his lap, and his gaze was intensely put on her face.

"Wha – what was that?" John was pacing in front of the door, mouthing the word brilliant but his face was confused.

"John, you never told be you knew Dr. Chrisophersen," Sherlock said, not breaking his gaze from her, still in awe.


	2. An Agreement

**Authors Note: Well, I apologize for short chapters. I'm really trying to give them more length and more stuff happen in them. But we'll see how it goes. **

**Disclaimer: Most of my story belongs to the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss. But Dr. Helena Christophersen is ALL mine! :) **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"But you're so wrong," Helena Christophersen said as she sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock.

"Oh? Please indulge me," Sherlock said, analyzing every step of this woman.

"_I_ didn't come here to have sex with John," she said and gave John an apologetic look. "But I did come here to discuss a matter if he wanted to participate in an experiment," she said while holding her gaze at John.

"What experiment?" Sherlock said, demanding her attention.

"Of course that gained your interest. How extremely unsurprising. Maybe you would be welcomed aboard in the future, but definitely not yet," she said to Sherlock and got up from her chair.

"Maybe we should go to a café to discuss this," she demanded more than asked John.

"Sh – sure," John said, and opened the door.

"It was truly good to meet you, Mr. Holmes," Helena smirked at Sherlock and exited the room.

* * *

"So, what is this experiment all about?" John asked, long over his shock.

"I need to study Sherlock Holmes," she answered frankly.

"Why don't you ask him?" John asked, not thinking. Helena just raised a brow. "Oh, yeah. Right," he caught up with himself.

"So, I need us to fake a relationship," she said, more as a question and grimaced as if she feared what John's reaction might be.

"So you can come around with an excuse," he asked, surprisingly understanding.

"Yes, basically," she answered, relieved with the good reaction.

"Why?" he asked, catching up with the request.

"Sherlock Holmes is the most brilliant man on this planet. He must have a wonderful way of memorizing things, and I need to understand his way deduction," she explained.

"But you already know it, obviously," John said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Well, I need to know if it's only the way I do it or if it's customized from person to person," she explained further.

"Will you publish it?" John asked, understanding of the protocol of these types of experiments.

"If finished, yes, I will. But anonymous," Helena confirmed.

"How long will you need?" John continued his questioning.

"Three to four months, tops," she answered.

"What would it mean then? If your research is successful?"

"John, I'm not a visionary, you can't ask me those questions,"

"You two are more alike than what you would think," John said and made a little laugh, thinking to himself that this could be interesting.

"Well, it's a professional study. And, knowing what I know of Sherlock, I doubt I will have any trouble with keeping an emotional distance," Helena took a look out the window of the café downstairs of 221b. Surprisingly many people rushing by, in the warm June weather outside. Women and men with their children, laughing along the street, busy businessmen half-sprinting along, late for a meeting. People just going on with their lives, ignorant of what happened behind the curtains of day-life. Ignorant of how much Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson had done for them, saving, perhaps not the world, but London.

Suddenly there was a shift of pattern; Helena had to squeeze her eyes to get a hold of it. Then she saw it. A young boy, maybe eight or nine years old, was being dragged away from his parents. She couldn't see who did it. By instinct, she rose from her chair and ran outside.

"Hey, wait up!" John said from behind her, knowing this action a bit too well after years of being with Sherlock. Helena ran across the street, following the screams of the young boy. Suddenly the sound disappeared, they're in a car, she noted. She ran back the way she came, with John in her heels, and saw the parents.

"Did you see them?" Helena tried to get a grip of the shoulders of the mother, but panic had the best of the woman and she shrugged them off.

"Two men and a woman," the father tried to keep his head cool. John took a hold of his shoulder and gave a comforting smile.

"Call Lestrade," Helena demanded.

"You know Lestrade?" John raised his brow in surprise.

"Well, it's an educated guess that you use him," Helena answered.

"Why?"

"Lestrade is," she was looking for the right words to say. "He's easy to, well, manipulate,"


	3. Let the Show Begin

**Authors Note: Okay, I should probably say this little piece of information. Jim Moriarty is not in this world, the Reichenbach Fall has never happened either. This is an "alternative" Sherlock world, as you've probably noticed. Thanks for reading, by the way!**

**Now the publications have been quite rapid, as I have tons of scenarios in my head, and I have to write them down. But please don't despair if the publications happens with longer periods in between!**

"_Why_ didn't you come get me?" Sherlock demanded from John and Helena.

"Really, Sherlock. What's most important?" Helena rolled her eyes at Sherlock.

"Letting _my _trained eyes see it," Sherlock said, obviously irritated over Helena's resistance.

"Dr. Christophersen has at least the same trained eyes as you, Sherlock," Lestrade said from the door. Sherlock seemed genuinely insulted.

"Come on, Sherlock. It's not the end of the world," Helena tried to smooth over it. In response Sherlock just snorted.

"I'll take you through it," Helena bent towards Sherlock and locked eye contact. "Leave," she told John and Lestrade.

"I'm down at Speedy's, looking out of the window while John's babbling about. Outside, people live their lives. What do you see?"

"Families, of course, outside because of the weather," Sherlock answered.

"Then something happens, something stirs the peace. Two men and a woman grab a boy, about eight or nine years of age, and drag him down the street. People screaming, but suddenly the high-pitched scream of the boy disappears. What happened? There's three possibilities, " Helena questioned again.

"One, he was killed on spot, unlikely if there's no blood there. Two, he was silenced by some sort of gagging device. Three, he was taken into a car," Helena smiled at him. "How did the parents react?" Sherlock continued.

"The mother was and is still a nervous wreck, while the father was keeping good effort in trying to be calm," Helena said. "But he might have been trying to look like he was shaken,"

"Yes," Sherlock answered and smiled. This was the first time someone really was on the same page as him.

"But why?" Helena said, now her face close to his.

"Only one way to find out," Sherlock rose from the chair and sprinted happily to the door. "The game, is on!"

Helena took to her feet and ran as she followed him down the stairs to where John and Lestrade stood; she had to smile by the expressions on their faces, clearly surprised by Sherlock's sudden cheer.

"Where did that come from?" John asked Helena as they slightly jogged behind Sherlock and Lestrade.

"It's brilliant," Helena whispered under a smirk, as she and John followed Sherlock into the cab. Lestrade drove off in the police car.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Follow the police car," Sherlock said with spark in his voice and eyes, nearly unable to sit still.

Sherlock and John sat beside each other and Helena sat opposite them. They all smiled as they raced through London. Helena had already gotten a lot of Sherlock on their very first meeting. That all-so-important first impression, but she hadn't yet had the chance to get an impression on a personal level. He was handsome, no doubt about it. The characteristics of his face, his cheekbones, his eyes and his hair were fascinating. It might not be seen as handsome, maybe more a bit scary, but still he was. She had to smile to herself by the thought. Of course it was Sherlock Holmes who owned those contradictions.

"Are you always this excited about child kidnapping?" she asked Sherlock. He seemed a bit shocked that she still was with them, but he didn't care.

"Yes," the answer was indifferent, as if she just asked him if he liked chocolate or something. Her face grimaced at the idea. "What?" he asked, nearly insulted.

"I suppose I have to get used for such answers to questions," she said and turned her gaze away from Sherlock and out the windows to the passing buildings. She stole one more look of Sherlock and he looked confused. She could see the processing behind his eyes, rewinding the conversation, trying to see where he might have answered wrong. She cut him short;

"I asked you if you were excited, you answered yes. It's not good," she answered, John let out a little laugh.

"You're a psychologist. You should have easily deducted my sociopathic symptoms," Sherlock argued as she cab stopped.

"Yes, but just because you got the symptoms, doesn't mean you got the disease," she smiled as she got out of the cab.

….

As they walked up to Lestrade's office Sherlock quickly went to Helena's side, instead of Lestrade's as he usually did on such cases.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said, but walking beside her as if he said nothing.

"You're not a sociopath," she looked up at him as he furrowed his brows.

" You've obviously not known the freak for a very long time, then," Sergeant Donovan stood next to the door, overhearing the conversation.

"I would advise you to keep your amateur and immature observations for yourself," Helena said with an authoritarian voice. Donovan was displeased with the reply by the unknown lady. Why would they always stay around the freak? she thought to herself.

"Experience over expertise, I would say," Donovan tried to get control over the situation again, but Helena wasn't planning on letting her gain that control.

"You do understand you're saying this to me, a psychologist graduated from Cambridge University as the best in my class, added a PhD , and have worked with the subject for over eight years?" Helena said, and laughed. She knew that would hurt her feelings more. Helena made sure Donovan was locked outside the office room, and made a mischievous smile at her as she closed the door.

"Does she know that the only reason you keep her on your team is because you know she shagged your boss, and you would be sacked for sacking her?" Helena asks Lestrade nonchalantly. Lestrade tried as hard as he could keeping the shock off his face, but his eyes went straight to John and Sherlock to get an explanation.

"Hello?" Lestrade was surprised she'd come with.

"Yeah, she's with us today," John said after he cleared his voice. Sherlock's eyes went to his face, confused, until he found an explanation for John's behaviour. Sherlock didn't especially like when John used him to pick girls, but this was not the time for discussion.

"She does what Sherlock does, really," John continued, and felt Sherlock's disapproving eyes on him. Helena was just trying to keep the peace, and went to sit on some chairs in the back of the room, calming Lestrade down.

"Okay," Lestrade said, still unsure whether he should continue, knowing that there was another person in the room. "We don't have anything much on the case yet, but the kid's been involved with small-crimes before so we have a file of him," Lestrade continued and handed the file over to Sherlock.

The file didn't get opened, as they passed a (mildly said) angry Donovan on the way out of the office, wasn't opened in the cab, wasn't opened until late that evening in fact.

Helena found herself in the sofa of the apartment of 221b, sheepishly reading the newspaper in the dark. Sherlock had been sitting in his chair since they came back from NSY, staring into the air.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock asked, sitting completely silent.

"I'm curious," she answered, not looking up from the newspaper.

"About what?"

"About everything," she answered, put the newspaper on the coffee table, and took a hold of the brown envelope on the same table. She was about the open it, when Sherlock hand took her wrists and stopped her action.

"Not yet," he said.

"What?" she narrowed her eyes towards Sherlock.

"What perspective did you specialize yourself in?" Sherlock continued with a question.

"Can't you tell?" she asked, not understanding why he asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Then why do you ask?"

"Tell me," he said, stubbornly.

"I specialized in the perspective of behaviourism," she answered, eyes still narrowed.

"Then you know of the Stanley Milgram Experiment, of course?" he asked, but knew the answer.

"It's elementary," she answered, as a flash of memory from the university and what would be called 'unethical experiments', which she had gone through a ton of.

"Then you might be a bit more useful than what I previously imagined," Sherlock says, turning around and goes into his bedroom.

**A/N: By the way, everything I write about the psychology subject is true, you can google it. If you haven't heard about the Stanley Milgram Experiment, I suggest you'd look it up.**


	4. A Couple of Weeks

**Thanks to everyone who's reading this. It's really overwhelming! Please review after you've read the story and tell me what you think.**

**That's basically it, really.**

The weeks passed. Helena slept on the sofa each night. Sherlock had also been giving a fifteen minutes long speech about why John was not her type. He was lacking everything, it seemed, she was told:

_"His intellect is not great enough, you'd get bored to quickly, you believe is work is important - but boring," he said and sat down, looking away from John and Helena. John at this point was tomato-red in his face as he felt 'scolded' for being bad._

_"And John's appearance don't appeal to you, and he's too _kind_," Sherlock put pressure on the last word, disliking it all together._

_"I'm still going to stay," Helena had answered, not ashamed or even angry for being caught. She seemed as if she'd almost expected it._

_"Well, then you have to pay rent," was Sherlocks response. Both Helena and John had been left in the main room, completely baffled by the response, both had been sure that Sherlock would have thrown her out, immediately – and literary. _

So she slept on the sofa. Not really minding it, since it was the best if she was to study Sherlock. She had rather quickly understood that he was both of the internal and oral type. He could use hours inside his own head, _mind mappin_g, she thought, but he could also use hours talking aloud. He had social difficulties, but she presumed it was not from some sort of social retardation, it was from lack of experience and that he didn't seem to bother much. There were other - more important - things for him to use his mind on.

She had already written several pages on the topic '_Minds of Geniuses – How to Remember Everything'_, but she needed him to formulate his own world, his own internal mind map.

"What's your mind map?" she asked while they were having tea one day. Sherlock always disliked having tea with Helena, since he believed she wouldn't appreciate it as it should be. _Only the British can enjoy tea, not _Norwegians, was the thought behind Sherlock's opinion. _Prejudiced _opinion which did not surprise Helena.

"What?"

"Is it a street, or a house? What is it? Mine, personally, is a palace. Not a palace like _Buckingham Palace_, more like, say Kengsington Palace. Every room presenting a new person or a situation. Quite strange when I think about it,"

"It's a palace," he answered, having a questionable stare over at Helena.

"Only the truly arrogant people have palaces. Assholes have castles," she said, with a broad grin on her face, amused by her own private joke. Sherlock eyes gleamed of confusion.

"Oh, yes. I did just call myself an arrogant person," she said, hoping that was the root of Sherlock facial expression. Even though she knew better, she felt a weight off her shoulders when the expression disappeared, replaced by another, disgust.

* * *

"I'm the only person I know that can – really – master the science of deduction," Sherlock said one day, completely out of the blue. John has been writing the conclusion to the kidnapped boy case (the father had ordered an abduction of his son, because of all his mischief. The son nearly got killed, the father ended up in prison), and Helena was still writing on her journal paper about Sherlock.

"Not anymore, it seems," John murmured from the table where he sat. Helena looked up from the laptop where she sat in the sofa.

"When -, no, _how_ did you learn it?" Sherlock nearly spat at Helena. She analysed him with large eyes for a minute, before settling down.

"I wanted to, therefore I sought the knowledge. I found the knowledge and I learnt it," she said. "But logical thinking is not something you can learn, I'm afraid. You can advance it, but you have to have the talent," she was looking down on her laptop screen again.

"But deduction-," Sherlock was cut off, something that happened more and more regularly as Helena's stay extended.

"It's not called deduction. Deduction is within the medical field, the hypothesis – analysing – conclusion of a patient case. What I do-, what _you_ do, Mr. Holmes, is called deductive- or abductive reasoning. Or logical-thinking as I like to say," Sherlock seemed really displeased with being lectured about something like that, and stormed off to his bedroom.

"You probably shouldn't come with constructive criticism to Sherlock," John said, now he had stopped typing.

"He probably shouldn't have had a fifteen minute speech about what attracts me in a man," she answered.

* * *

Helena quickly understood that she had to keep a healthy submission towards Sherlock if this was going to work. She had to be the lesser person, but she equally understood that Sherlock considered her as the closest to his equal as he would ever find.

Life with John and Sherlock became comfortable. It became harder and harder to keep the professional distance which was needed to continue the paper she was making, she knew calling it an _experiment_ which she previously called it to John, was wrong – but she also knew that there was no way he would accept it if she plainly called it a paper.

"What are you writing?" She met Sherlock's intensive stare when she made the action she'd made so many times while her stay at Baker Street.

"I bet you would like to know," she answered, still keeping the stare.

"Yes. Yes, I would,"

The stare between them continued. It was hard to categorize it as either sexual or combative, but those two things are hard to separate from the get-go.

"It's time for one of you to say something now," John said from his chair. He hadn't seen Sherlock in this situation since the Irene Adler situation. The greatest difference from that to this was that now, Helena wasn't obviously inferior (as Sherlock would have put it), but rather more an equal than Miss Adler. Sherlock simply broke the stare and moved it to John.

"Hah! I won!" Helena jumped up from the sofa and ran around the living room as if she was high (cocaine Sherlock mused).

"Oh, no! You didn't!" Sherlock said, waving his hand around, protesting Helenas victory.

"Oh, yes, I did!" Helena continued and patted Sherlocks shoulder in pity.

"What, what'd I miss?" John said, holding his hands up in the air, watching the situation continuing before his eyes (which he couldn't believe). "Wait, were you actually, _actually_, playing a game?" he continued with big eyes.

"And I won," Helena confirmed.

"You cheated," Sherlock said and sank down into his chair.

"As if I could _make_ John say that," she smirked as she went and patted Johns shoulder.

"Of course you could do that," Sherlock smiled at Helena, a treat John rarely saw Sherlock give to anyone – or any_thing_, except violent deaths. John looked up towards the woman who stood behind him, she was returning the gesture.

"Of course I could do that," she answered. "Now, tell me about this dominatrix. What's her name? Oh yes, Irene Adler,"


	5. The Case of the Contaminated Arm

"Were you wondering about something else?" Sherlock said while he paced around, bored.

"No, not really. Well, there was this one thing," Helena said, getting a hint of crimson-red on her face.

"Not now," John warned. A simple nod between them made the thought slip her mind. The sudden end of the conversation did not go unnoticed by Sherlock. He was desperately trying to read what he'd missed, and again replayed the conversation in his mind.

"Another time, Sherlock," she sent a warm smile towards Sherlock. That exact smile, Sherlock thought, was a smile he liked. Of course, to the extent Sherlock could _like_ anything. He just simply nodded back to her.

The familiar sound of Sherlocks message-tone clung through the room.

"It's Lestrade, new case. Care to join?"

"Where to?"

"St. Bart's this time," he said, already on his way down the stairs with John. She just smiled to herself and followed.

* * *

Helena had never liked hospitals, and the gothic feeling of the corridors leading down to the morgue at St. Bartholomew's gave her a freezing feeling down her spine. No, she confirmed, she really disliked hospitals.

"Why is this hospital so important?" Helena said, this was her first time following them whiles they, or more correctly – Sherlock, was to observe the dead.

"Important staff," John said, as he slowed his pace to go beside Helena.

"Important staff, really?" she let her eyes rest on the neck of the figure in front of her, but she had to be honest – it was hard not to let her eyes rest on a place lower on his back.

"Yes, more correctly, pathologist Molly Hooper," John just smiled.

"He exploits her,"

"Yes, she knows," he answered just letting his eyes rest on the target in front of him.

"Why?" she asked, not believing that this Molly Hooper would allow Sherlock to just recklessly play with her emotions.

"You'll see soon enough," John opened the swing-door and the evidence came slamming into her face. It was so obvious.

Molly Hoopers face lit up as if looking at the brightest star, when Sherlock entered her room and demanded her attention. She smiled and a flicker of hope crossed her face, and remained in her eyes, all this happening within a few milliseconds after Sherlocks entrance. But the second Doctor Hooper noticed Helenas presence the smile disappeared and the hope that lingered in her eyes was replaced by dark jealousy.

"Who's this," Molly Hooper set pleading eyes on Sherlock for an answer. The feeling from the Christmas when he'd been able to identify Irene Adler from 'just her body', came creeping back.

"This is Doctor Helena Christophersen," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, idly trying to get this introduction out of the way.

"Doctor, huh?"

"Yes, I'm a professor in psychology. I've read up on your work - interesting," Helena said, trying to smooth over a situation which could get uncomfortable.

"Yes, so what am I, then?" Molly asked, not convinced.

"Forensic pathologist, obviously. And from what I know, a very good one as well," Sherlock knew it was an easy deduction, but it was still information most people missed, he was what he would call _impressed_.

"Oh, y-yes. Thank you," Molly was unsure of how to react.

"No, the pleasure is all mine," Helena smiled and went on to look around the room.

"Oh,"

"Molly, I need to see the new specimen," Sherlock went straight onto it.

"Y-yes, over here," and they followed out into another room.

"Poor girl," Helena said over her breath, nearly without sound. "Well, hopefully she has the nerve to say when she thinks things get a bit too much, she indeed seem to enjoy it," she said a bit louder as she was sure both Molly and Sherlock was inside the morgue.

"Yeah, she's sort of been drooling all over him for a long time now," John agreed.

As they stood there waiting, Helena allowed herself to take in a thorough observation of this woman. She had a disturbing love for cats; it was so disgustingly obvious from her sweater with small kittens on it. But she was organised, as all her paperwork was neatly sorted into bunches of finished and unfinished ones. Helena had previously concluded with the fact that she had to be thoroughly good at her work. No doubt about it. Why else would _Sherlock Holmes_ go to a just-thirty-something year old _woman_ to do tests and talk about victims in the cases? Anyway, from what Helena had to go on, it was obvious that Miss Hooper was deprived a pink-girl childhood with a pet (which she dearly longed for), was forced to be serious and attending whatever her mother, Helena presumed, thought was fitting for a girl her age. Although her upbringing weren't to Miss Hooper's taste emotionally, she would never be able to let go of its well organised system.

With a little zip-bag in hand, Sherlock went storming out of the morgue, John and Helena's eyes darted up in surprise.

"Need to go," Sherlock said, and stormed out of the front office.

"Apparently," John said with raised eyebrows. Sherlock had done this before, and he weren't really happy when John had followed him.

"Okay..?" Helena said, not really expecting the behaviour.

"Not to worry. He just got an arm contaminated with bubonic plague. Nothing serious," Molly said, grinning from the doorframe.

"You just gave a madman an arm with bubonic plague. No, that's not serious at all, it all makes complete sense to do something like that," Helena said dramatically.

"H-He's not mad," Molly said.

"No, but he's one experiment away from becoming an evil mastermind, so I might worry," Helena said, still with a surprised shock on her face.

"Well, now ladies. He's not going to let the black plague roam over London again. Come, let's take a coffee," John said, laughing at the women's meaningless argument.

"Fine… But the black plague roamed all over Europe. Not only London remember? Only 1/5 of the Norwegian population survived," Helena continued.

"True, John. You can't let that slip your mind," Molly said, and grinned at Helena.

Great, John thought, these two women as partners in crime… That's just fantastic…

* * *

"Where have you been?" Sherlock said as Helena crashed on the sofa, and John went to roam the frigde.

"Out of your way," John mumbled in response, little surprised he noticed their absence. He usually never did.

"Well, I can tell for a fact that this isn't bubonic plague, if anyone was worried," Sherlock said, his eyes still steady into the microscope.

"What else causes, _that_?" Helena was suddenly standing next to him, staring at the arm laying spread across the kitchen table.

"Some sort of poisoning,"

"And a dash of placebo?" Helena asked, but went back to the sofa and took her book in hand.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, now turned around facing her.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time someone's managed to get dramatically ill by placebo. A couple of German psychiatrist did it to prisoners during the second world war. It was a time-consuming way of getting rid of what they called 'their problem', but it was really an efficient way."

"I suppose if you're injected with poison, not enough to make you die, but enough to make you ill it should be a kick start," John said with a cup in his hands.

"And then the talking would finish the job," Helena said.

There was a moment of silence – well, a _Sherlock-moment_. John went and turned on the telly and Helena opened her Tolkien book. After about twenty minutes, Sherlocks eyes shot up wide and a large grin spread across his face.

"Oh, yes! This is brilliant!" Sherlock clapped his hands together and rose from the kitchen chair.

"I can't really see the brilliance of someone going around poisoning and then convincing people they're going to die," Helena had put her book back in her lap.

"It's not the fact that someone does it, it's to _whom_,"

"What?" a puzzled expression spread across her face.

"The hand you were so grossed out about, it's owner was Lucian Waltermoore," Sherlock said excitedly, thinking everyone was on the same page as him. He was met by numb expressions from both sides.

"The former English leader of the freemasons?" Sherlock said and rolled his eyes.

Helena and John both made their mouths into small O's at the realisation. Sherlock was already putting on his coat.

"Where do you think you're going?" John asked from the chair.

"What?" Sherlock asked, stumped by the question.

"You're not going out tonight," Helena answered.

"Molly's birthday is tomorrow, and _we're_ going to plan it," John said with a stern voice. Both completely baffled when Sherlock removed his coat.

**A/N: Yes, if you noticed, it is a The Big Bang Theory reference. But the line is just so damned good! I just want to warn everyone that I have no particular knowledge about freemasonry, so if anything is wrong don't hang me.**


	6. Change In Pattern

**Authors Note: Oh, gosh! I'm so sorry. Time just flew by and I had so little time writing this. Well, a bit overdue, but here it is!**

"Why do I need to be with on this? This Christian ritual is pathetic," Sherlock said stubbornly from his chair, irritated by the refusal to go out.

"Christianity does not have monopoly on celebration birthdays, Sherlock. If you really want to think of it that way, let me tell you it's a pagan ritual of passage," Helena said, not allowing any of Sherlock's excuses to pass.

"Why are people always so keen on celebrating their _birthdays_?" he spat the last word.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you know that. It's your favourite word! Sentiment," Helena answered, sounding like she spelled the last word.

In return everything she got was a curt sound. Nobody could give Sherlock a prize for being very helpful with the arrangements. But at least he didn't leave, both John and Helena agreed on this. Sherlock simply just sat in his chair, waiting for something interesting to happen. _Unlikely_, he thought.

"Sherlock, stop making man-noises from your chair… Maybe you could help us getting out these glasses?" Helena said as she was preparing something in the kitchen.

"Are you cooking?" Sherlocks brows furrowed.

"No, I'm making a bomb," Helena laughed. She felt Sherlocks hand curtly brushing on her back, she turned around to look at him with large eyes.

"You had a thread on your shirt,"

"Yeah, so?"

"Pink threads are very visible on black sweaters," he stated, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah-uh," Helena said, not convinced. Sherlock saw easily where her doubt lay.

"If I were to caress you, I would probably be a bit softer, wouldn't I?" Sherlock said, Helena nearly mistake him for being unsure. But Sherlock wasn't very often unsure about anything.

"Probably,"

"Excuse me, are you disappointed?" Sherlock said confusion and frustration in in voice simultaneously. She could easily feel his eyes bore into her back, as she turned around.

"Nope," she answered, neither of them believing her answer.

* * *

The dumplings Helena had made, had been consumed. They'd actually been sitting there for two and a half hour enjoying themselves in each other's company. Even Sherlock had to admit he weren't _as bored_ as earlier. Everyone thought that was an improvement.

"Well, I think I've maybe found someone who is willing to fund my research," Helena said after a brief silence.

"Really? That's great!" John said and took up his glass to toast to her.

"I didn't know you were doing research," Sherlock sat opposite her. His face didn't show any emotion, even though she had at least expected some jealousy for the lack of information.

"Well, I am," she answered before returning Johns and Mollys toast.

"That's really good," Molly tried to keep up with the conversation, but she had gotten _just_ enough wine. John and Helena traded glances and John nodded. Molly was on the water-wagon from now on. "Especially if you want the money to rent your own place somewhere,"

"She doesn't have to do that. She can stay here," Sherlock offered, nearly as if it were a fact rather than a proposal.

"I'd rather not sleep on the sofa for the rest of my life, but thanks," Helena and Sherlocks eyes locked just then, both of them clearly understanding the conversation linking between them. He was nearly shouting out loud that his bed was at offer, _no problem_. Both broke the gaze simultaneously, looked down and blushed briefly.

_Must be the wine_, Sherlock thought. Helena wasn't so naïve, though. She'd sensed the brief sexual tension since he first thoroughly studied her, all those months ago. With a blush on her face she looked intensely down on the cup of cocoa (a new steady flatmate next to the tea and coffee).

"So," John cleared his throat. "This has been a very nice evening. Do you want me to hail a cab for you, Molly?"

"Y-yes, that would be very nice, thank you," Molly said, disgusted and jealous of what she'd just witnessed. This was _her_ birthday after all, she though, didn't they have the decency to behave today?

Sherlock had sat himself in his chair, pondering about the murder on the former freemason leader. Sitting in his familiar style, with his hands pressed together under his cheek. Helena stole some looks of him while she was doing his dishes.

"He likes you, you know," John more stated than asked Helena while he was towelling the plates.

"It's just because I'm so smart," Helena joked with a grimace on her face. She usually managed to keep so mysterious, her feelings locked behind a certain lock in her head.

"I've never seen him like this," John leaned in and whispered to her. "Just tonight, I've seen him joking, nearly openly flirting _and_ having a little blush,"

Helena just gave a nervous laugh in return.

"He's not in control over his emotions anymore, Helena,"

"What are you two plotting up in there?" Sherlock said loudly throughout the flat.

"What happens in the kitchen stays in the kitchen," John said, making a fun-face toward Sherlock so he could see.

"What? There's not even a door blocking it. I could hear the summing clearly," Sherlock argued.

"You chose to stay off kitchen duty, and then you don't get any gossip," John continued.

"Luckily then, I'm not interested in gossip," Sherlock grunted.

"Really, Sherlock, you should chill," Helena popped her head from behind John. The expression on his face was a mixture between shock, relief, warmth and sadness. It was nearly as if he'd forgotten _she_ was there.

"Chill?" he made a disgusted face. He really did despise when people was ruining the English Standard.

"Find some mental relaxation," Helena smiled.

"My mind is always _on,_"

"Okay?" she just laughed at him and finished up the plates.

"Well, except," Sherlock trailed off. The change of pattern – the dramatic change of Sherlocks pattern – alarmed the psychologist side in Helena. She'd been told about Sherlocks addictions before, from John - and from Sherlock himself after she asked and he gladly told her.

"Nobody does cocaine to keep their minds off things, Sherlock," her look was concerned and her brows furrowed in the middle. In answer he gave her a fake and patched smile.

There was a long silence. As always John cleared his throat and killed the silence.

"Sherlocks been clean for three years now, right?" there was a real concerned question in Johns voice. He really didn't know whether or not Sherlock had been doing cocaine while he lived there.

"Yes, that's true," Sherlock answered; his gaze on some distant point.

"Ecstasy is a fine way to shut the brain down, and helps your body stretch out the tense," Helena said, now by the bookcase, trying to find something new.

"What? You were just concerned he was doing cocaine, and now you're suggesting _ecstasy?_" Johns eyes were larges as saucers.

"I weren't talking about the drug," Helena said, her eyes on Sherlock now.

"Why are you people so _extremely_ obsessed about _sex_?" Sherlock exploded; the last word was pressed with disgust.

"What is so bad about sex, Sherlock?" Helena said; her interrogating eyes still on Sherlock.

"It's distractive!" Sherlock stood from his chair in one quick move and went to stand by the kitchen-doorway – his arms still up in the air in some dramatic way.

"Exactly!" Helena said loudly back, her voice nearly frustrated.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Maybe you should experiment," Helena said under her breath, just loud enough to Sherlock and John to hear her.

Sherlock gave a loud and angry breath, marched to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. Helena and John were left in the main room. The silence was deafening.

"I should probably," Helena let the sentence trail off.

"Yeah, and I should probably go to bed," John answered.

"Yeah,"

John gave Helena an understanding smile before he went upstairs to his own bedroom. Helena breathed deeply and walked outside Sherlocks bedroom door. She stood there for a long time, hesitant to what she should do. She breathed deeply again, trying to gain more confidence. With an impulse she knocked on the door.

**A/N: Going to try to not give away too much, but for those of you who are waiting for the reason this thing is rated M, you'll have to stick around until the next chapter, or two... :)**


	7. The Sexual Experiment

There was answer. She braved herself again with another deep sigh and knocked on the door again.

"Hmm?" the voice of Sherlock was both irritated and indifferent at the same time.

"Sherlock, I want t-," the door opened and she saw Sherlock going back to his drawer inside his room. Hesitantly she walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind her.

"I'm very sorry, Sherlock. I went over line, I know you don't want to discuss it," Helena said, her eyes scattering across the room, trying to avoid looking at Sherlock.

"The reason I don't want to talk about it, is because my lack of knowledge about it," Sherlock said curtly, still with his back to her.

"Surely you're not clueless?" it slipped her mind, she weren't planning on saying it – she was actually was trying really hard to make sure it didn't slip.

"No, I'm not. But I won't be exaggerating when I say I have limited experience,"

"Oh," Helena had no clue of what to say.

Sherlock turned around and looked at her with such warmth she was certain he was incapable of. He leaned against the drawer and his eyes were searching her body. His eyes roamed her, not like before – searching for some hidden signs of previous activities, but he was watching her curves, the way she stood with her legs crossed while she stood. Both of their breathing became rapid as they looked at each other. The silence was becoming excruciating. Helena could feel her face become red and warm, and she put it in her hands.

Sherlock unfolded the knot his arms were in in front of his body, stood and walked over to Helena. He took away her hands from her face and replaces them with her own. For a moment he just stood there, with her face cupped in his hands, staring into her eyes.

Then he kissed her. His lips unmoving against her own, just pressing down. She took the initiative, and she pressed back, inviting for Sherlock to open his mouth. When he opened his mouth, both were shocked by the sensation and let out a wanting moan.

Sherlock took hold of the small of her back and pressed her against him, pulling her close in near desperation. With a desperate pull he shrugged off his jacket, trying to make sure his movement didn't separate him from her lips.

Garment after garment was thrown on the floor in hurried drops. When they now stood there, naked bodies pressed together while they desperately tried to fulfil their desires with their kisses – they both were struck with the unfamiliar and strange sensation of time going slowly and intensely fast at the same time.

She broke the kiss and took a step behind, smiling a warm and mischievous smile to Sherlock. His eyes were aroused and he had a mixture of frustration, confusion and desire on his face. She simply took his hand, and made a little pull toward the bed.

At first they just sat beside each other, watching each other's naked bodies, and Helena waited on Sherlock to answer a silent question. He smiled warmly towards her in answer, and she pulled him close to where she sat. She started kissing him with short, teasing kisses, and in one smooth movement they shifted positions so Sherlock lay on top of Helena.

At first Sherlock tried with keeping himself hovering over her by holding himself up with his arms, but soon enough he felt the distance be too long, and wrapped his arms around her petite body as closed in on the distance. He kissed her fiercely, now completely agreeing that letting their tongue touch emphasised the sensation.

_She was right_, Sherlock thought, _this is a fantastic way of relaxing_. His mind shut off at the sensation of her body shift under his own. His eyes were large on her face as he lifted himself up a little. She smiled a reassuring smile back, and he lifted his body even further away from her, as to try to set himself into the right position. Helen laughed when this seemed to be a bit difficult to him.

As she helped him to reach her opening, Sherlock held himself steadier and with a mild thrust pushed into her. Both let out a satisfied moan, which was led by another unsatisfied moan for each other's bodies. The thrust was followed by a new steady pace, and every new thrust was answered by a new moan and breathing from the involved in the act.

"Oh, Sherlock," Helena moaned as she was near her own peak. He went faster as he tried to contain his own reach.

Sherlock started to feel a tingling sensation in his toes and the sensation quickly spread around his body. It felt like, from the very inside of his core, warmth begun to spread across the inside of his body and he felt his skin heated against Helenas. Her skin nearly felt cold against his own.

Together they fell over the peak and they slipped back onto each other. Sighing heavily, trying to get some sort of control over their breathing. He laid himself beside her, and watched her. He was fascinated about the way her chest went up and down in rhythmical movements, he thought it was completely foolish, he knew the mechanics behind the action.

They used nearly an hour just watching each other. Saying nothing. Helena was unsure of his reaction if she spoke, maybe he'd mistake it as sentiment – or maybe he wouldn't mistake it at all. Sherlock on the other side had new data from his _experiment_ to go over. He really liked the bodily side of this first experiment, but he quickly made a mental note that this would need more research on this not-at-all tedious topic. He also noted to himself that he liked these kinds of experiments and he thought to himself that he should use more time to do this kind of physical and psychological studies more often.

They fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed, with comfortable distance to be close enough, and far enough away.

**A/N: Hope you liked** it!** This was surprisingly hard to write...**


	8. Unexpected Consequences

**Authors Note: **

**First, I want to apologize for the incredible long wait. I've had so much to do and so little motivation to do ****_anything_****. And this chapter has been incredible hard to write, not sure what to make of it. Well, here it is! Hope you'll enjoy it!**

**Aand, it's a bit shorter than intended. Sorry...**

* * *

Sherlock could honestly say he had never been so rested in his entire life. He felt his muscles were heavy on the bed and felt strange, as if he had drained something from his body, something that used to drain him.

With a flash he remembered his activity from last night. A flush of terror and disappointment ran over his body and he froze. With the slightest movement possible, he turned his head ever-so-slightly and opened his eyes carefully; afraid to what may meet his gaze.

With the mixture of relief and disappointment he found himself alone. With more confidence he opened his eyes wide and took in the details of the room. There wasn't really anything different; everything was as they should. The clothes scattered on the floor were a little shock, but logical. He started to focus more of the surroundings outside his own bedroom. He could hear cups silently being moved around and small footsteps in the kitchen. He scolded himself when he found he was smiling at the thought.

* * *

She was trying to be as silent as she possibly could, thought the clinkering of the tablespoon as the stirred her cocoa made enough sound she knew Sherlock would hear, and most possibly wake.

"Sorry, could you hand me the sugar, please?" John whispered from behind her, she simply handed him the sugar from the shelf. It was evident that when Sherlock first did sleep, John couldn't do enough to make him sleep 'that extra hour'. She smiled as a reply and he went back into the main room, on his laptop.

The door opened behind her, and she was thoroughly afraid to look around. She knew there would be several different outcomes of this situation. Best case (most probable, at least) scenario; would be him being indifferent. Worst case scenario; he would be angry. Very angry.

"Is the water still warm?" Sherlocks voice was surprisingly hoarse, and both were surprised by the way it sounded. Helena cleared her throat before answering.

"Yes, just boiled, actually,"

"Ah, yes. That sad form of straight-in-cup cocoa," Helena was unsure whether this was a way for him to mock her, but it could as much be a serious statement from him. She was immediately unsure how smart it was to get involved with him.

"Don't say such things about my cocoa, its feelings will get hurt," she answered ironically.

"Oh, do tell I'm really sorry for my behaviour," Sherlock smiled and made a gruff laugh.

"I think tea will do some good for your voice," Helena laughed back.

"Hmm?"

"Your voice is a bit sexier than what is decent,"

"There's nothing wrong with my voice," Sherlock lied.

"Keep on telling yourself that," John entered the conversation, and laughed by the sound of his voice. He was met with a pair of icy blue eyes which bore into John eyes with something that resembled hatred.

"It's only the sniffles, Sherlock, take it easy," John said while he put up his hand to command some calm from the man opposite him.

"I don't get sick," Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, but what about that time-," John was cut off by Sherlock storming past him and dumping himself into his chair. "Someone's in a bad mood today," John sang jokingly.

"Well, sniffles isn't much fun," Helena answered with a furrowed brow.

* * *

"I'm not sick," Sherlock said as John sat a large mug of tea next to his friend.

"Well, if you're not sick now, it won't be long until you are. Please just drink the stuff," John answered. Sherlock reluctantly took the mug to his mouth and took a good chug of the beverage.

"So, everything's alright?" John asked, unexpectedly rather nervous.

"Sure," Helena answered before Sherlock could say anything.

"Well, that's good," John smiled satisfied.

"John, give me the file," Sherlock simply put out his hand, expecting it to magically appear.

"What file?"

"The case file, really John? What has gotten over you?" Sherlock was rather annoyed, _was this usual aftermath?_ he thought to himself.

"Hm, Molly should have the body clear and ready tonight, so don't make any plans," Sherlock put the file on the floor and went to the fridge to find is latest mould experiment.

"How did you manage that?" John said in a loud whisper to Helena.

"He's a child, I compromised," Helena lied, and John knew.

"Well, as long as everyone's happy," John sent a suspicious look towards Helena.

"Sure," Helena stood awkwardly by the door.

"You're going anywhere?" John asked after it had gone a bit too long.

"Yeah, I will be out for a little while… I'll be back in a couple of hours," Helena answered.

"I'll text you if we leave and he wants you there," he nodded towards the figure sitting by the table.

"Cool," she said while her coat was on and she left the apartment of 221b Baker Street.


	9. The Personal Research Journal

**Soo, oh my god. Chapter Nine is here, and I feel completely and utterly guilty for not publishing since February (or January?). There will be one more chapter of this story, but it will continue in another story! Yes, it will! I will announce the story on the next update, thinking I will be able to do that sometime in May, again. I have tons of exams and birthdays and all of that stuff, so please bear with me!**

**Till next time!**

* * *

**Personal Research Journal, March 20****th****.**

I've stayed in the company of trauma doctor John Watson M.D. and self-acclaimed 'consulting detective' Sherlock Holmes for the last five months.

During this time I have learned that my previous hypothesis of Mr Holmes has been wrong. Mr Holmes is perfectly adequate of human emotion and shows no symptoms of Asperger's syndrome, any sociopathic symptoms or any symptoms of diagnosed form of social difficulties that was previously assumed.

As it happens, Mr Holmes proves to be just a _man_. Or as I probably should say; unfortunately just a man. The most probable reason for Sherlock Holmes difficulties to socialise with people around him is grounded in trust-issues and lack of _practice_.

I've used a number of different sources to get to know something of Sherlocks childhood, including Sherlock himself (that is, what he was willing to tell me). He grew up outside Brighton, in a cold home, brought up by au pairs. The only moments that bring a spark in Sherlocks eyes are of the moments spent in the family estate in Scotland. Those moments when he could go around on his own; watching, observing and learning. Those moments defined the man the world knows today. He was lonely – no, he _is_ lonely.

Today he might say he always knew he was special, but the truth is he didn't know that. He knew himself as an outcast. To fill the void of insecurity and loneliness he emerged himself in what he knew. That is the reason why he is so good at what he does. He's had a lot of practice.

When he grew up and started at university, people had a form of envy and annoyance towards him, and his defend mechanism evolved to become a mixture of hatred and arrogance towards the world and a heightened self-confidence and trust in himself and his abilities.

He accepted to himself a way of _only_ focus on his mind work. Blocking out all human emotion. What he didn't think of at the time was the fact that the internal battle of the right and left part of his brain, would consume much more energy than letting emotions surface.

The thought is saddening, because Sherlock Holmes is a man fully capable of emotion on a level unheard of.

I got emotionally involve with this study, and I have found it necessary to abort the study. I am a professional and I have crossed lines I should not have crossed, and it is unacceptable. I have found it necessary to move myself and my situation to another location away from Mr Holmes.

The part that concerns me is how this study has changed me. Sherlock Holmes managed to get me to willingly cross my professional rules. Even though it's only hours since I compromised the study, I feel utterly insecure about approaching him. Especially now, since I have to leave.

The hardest moment will be when I have to tell him that my stay was caused by a study; which both his brother and his best friend, and flatmate, had agreed to. This project seems to have been ethically wrong from the get-go.

I feel an extreme guilt towards Sherlock for the mixture of these things. I will probably not tell him these things now, but later – under the right circumstances.

* * *

Suddenly her phone stirred on the cafe table next to her computer.

_Where are you? I said no plans! – SH_

"I'm a complete idiot and a massive bitch, and I don't deserve to live," she muttered to herself


	10. The Death of Sherlock Holmes

**Here it is, the final chapter this time!**

* * *

"You summoned," Helena said as she nonchalantly walked through the door to the morgue.

"If you listened to me, there would have been no need," Sherlock answered from the microscope.

"He didn't tell me to get down here just to make me watch him at the microscope," Helena said with a furrowed brow.

"Well, he does like his audience," Molly said, tripping into the office.

"Molly, you look lovely today," Helena smiled her most reassuring smile. She knew Molly saw what was going on yesterday, at her birthday, and honestly she felt a bit embarrassed.

"Thank you, I've gotten some stripes," she said and pointed to her hair. It did do miracles to her mousy brown hair, now it was shining and a bit sexy.

"Nice," Helena said, crossing her arms and leaning on the desk behind her.

"Are Londoners still being poisoned?" Helena asked after a little while.

"Well, no," John said hesitantly.

"'Well, no what?" she asked again, turning towards him.

"It's more like a personal Jack the Ripper is out to get Sherlock," John said, and rubbed his forehead.

"Wow, you must be really loud," she said.

"Loud, how am I loud?" Sherlock asked from the other side of the room.

"Well, you do attract attention," she said matter-of-factly and lifted her brow.

"Someone wants to kill Sherlock, Helena!" Molly voice cracked.

"I am well aware of that," Helena said with the utmost severity in her voice. The tone her voice was bathed in left a vibrating silence in the room, even Sherlock looked up from the microscope.

"We've contacted Lestrade, but he can't spare any cops," John said, still with his head in his hand.

"Well, of course not. They know it's a suicide mission," Helena laid the cards on the table. That was the situation; and she saw no reason to chitty-chat now. She glanced over to Sherlock, his eyes were shimmering with a thin sheet of saltwater, and he looked away.

"But he's not the first one, why should this one succeed?" John exclaimed and threw his hands up in the air in frustration. He wasn't just going to lose his brilliant flatmate to a psychotic murderer.

"This one is different," Sherlock said after a long sigh.

"It surprised you," Helena realised.

"There was no warning, not anything. Just Molly calling me, telling me there was a body in her morgue with my death note on it. It doesn't make any sense," Sherlock yelled from frustration, and Helena knew he would set a lot of the blame on her.

"If he, or she, attacked you – would you survive?" Helena asked.

"Maybe," Sherlock answered. He showed her something in his eyes that he didn't mean to show, he was frightened and he felt alone. But they just locked eyes, sharing a secret conversation.

"We will need to go to New Scotland Yard," John said, afraid to move. Right at this moment the morgue seemed like the safest place in the world.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose. For the first time in a long time, he could honestly say he was frightened.

* * *

The walk from the morgue out into the streets felt like an infinity. Their footsteps and breaths loud in the silent corridors, every sense in their bodies were on high alert to danger, adrenaline built up and the body was on the edge of deciding whether to fight or run.

Out in the streets, ever sound was loud and sharp and startled them. Everything from the sudden sirens of the police cars to the yelling, drunk people from across the streets.

"I thought you said you never were afraid, that being afraid was irrational," John nearly spat, he didn't want his friend to die and the thought of it grew increasingly more realistic when Sherlock himself were scared.

"I think that being scared is stupid when the fear is based in irrational things. Being afraid to die isn't irrational," Sherlock stated.

"Shut up, both of you," Helena hissed. If she could do anything with it, Sherlock was certainly not going to die.

They just continued their walk down the streets, why on earth they had chosen to walk and not take a cap had escaped Helena's rational thoughts. But for Sherlock, this was marking territory. Nobody was going to kill him on his own home base, not ever.

All of a sudden there was an attacking shout from behind the group, which made them spin around and nearly make a move on it. But it seemed to only be someone in the alley getting up to a having a good time. All of the three breathed heavily and their hearts raced.

Sherlock, who stood behind John and Helena, let out a gasp, and they spun around to see him being dragged away and into an alley a block further away. They ran after Sherlock, and he was really putting up a fight. He kicked, and hit and bit the man who dragged him away, but never once did he make a sound.

For just a couple of seconds Sherlock was out of their sights in the alley and let out a ear-piercing, heart bursting scream of pain. They ran faster than they thought was possible, next to a couple of trashcans he lay, already bloody faced and wincing in pain.

"Damn, fucking hell, damn, damn, damn!" John yelled as he tried to stop the bleeding from Sherlocks head. He was cut in one long stroke from under his ear to his collarbone, and the cut was deep, messy and bloody.

"I'm calling 999," Helena quickly scooped up her phone from her pocket and explained all the necessary information for the ambulance to come quickly. Within few minutes, or rather an eternity, the ambulance showed up and took over the work on Sherlock.

* * *

Helena knew very well that it was only a matter of time before someone would have gone in to hurt Sherlock. And this one wasn't the first homicide attempt on him either. He was basically a walking red hit-mark that nearly every criminal in the world had their guns pointed to. But no one had ever predicted them to succeed. He was like vermin, impossible to get rid of and a constant plague to those he stood in the way of.

But it was never strange to anyone that he had enemies. John, Helena and even Molly, had on numerous occasions wanted to kick his teeth in, tape his mouth and bind him to a pole on the roof. But for them, Sherlock was the type of vermin you end up liking, like a cute little mouse you end up loving and you cannot kill as you should have done.

And that's why they always stayed.

Helena, Molly and John stood silent as they watched the trolley with Sherlock half struggling to stay alive, vanish behind the hospital door. They were panting and speechless and couldn't quite gather what had happened. At the very moment Sherlock, the man who had (nearly) single-handedly saved the world numerous times needed advanced medical help to survive. He had multiple bone fractures and some of his internal organs were damaged, particularly his spleen and kidneys. And to not forget, that blasted – deep and pulsing – cut on his face and neck, separating his aorta into two and making his chances of survival slight.

The surgeons kept Sherlock in the operating theatre for five excruciating hours. They were able to stabilise his spleen but had to remove one of his kidneys the cut on face and aorta would heal.

"But we cannot promise anything with," the surgeon hesitated.

"You cannot promise what?" John's harsh voice cut through in the waiting room.

"We cannot promise that he won't be brain damaged. When his aorta was ruptured, his brain didn't get enough oxygen. I am very sorry, all we can do is –"

"Wait," Helena finished the doctor's sentence, giving him a glare from hell telling him to get away.

"A brain-damaged Sherlock, that could be interesting," Molly said, sighing loudly as she fell back into her chair.

"They should've let him die if they knew that to be a probable possibility," Helena said, getting a few stares from the other people in the waiting room, but John supported her.

"That's what he would have wanted, no – that's what he will consider himself if he can't use his brain," John agreed.

"You should go see him when it's cleared," Helena told John, though it wasn't much of a question more like an order.

"Yes, I will," John answered.

When John was allowed to go and see Sherlock, Helena excused herself and went back to the flat. She walked slowly, but decidedly, into 221b, grabbed her bag and started packing. She took her clothes, computer and books which she had bought during her stay. She fixed so the sofa was back to its former glory and put the duvet and pillows back into the room which it came from. She grabbed her cocoa and looked around the flat.

Now, there was no evidence that she had stayed in the flat for the past months. It was as if she had erased herself from the history of the flat. She walked into Sherlocks bedroom, and sat down on his bed. She took his pillow and breathed in his scent for a little while and ending it by putting her lips on the cover, giving it a little kiss.

"I'm going to miss you," she whispered into the room, nearly foolishly wishing he would hear her message when he came back here.

She went back to the hospital and saw Molly standing outside the room where Sherlock were. She was back into her white lab-coat, probably working off stress, Helena thought. She went to stand beside her and looked in through the same window as she did.

The room were barely lit, dark as if Sherlock were just sleeping. John sat next to the bed, sitting in a silent vigil.

"He looks so innocent," Molly remarked, gave a brief smile and looked at Helena.

"Yes, he does," Helena simply answered, shifting a little as her bag was becoming heavy for her arm.

"You're leaving? Now?" Molly turned towards Helena. Helena just put her eyes on the floor, sighing heavily.

"Yes, I'm leaving," she answered and turned towards Molly.

"Where?" Molly had angry eyes, but the rest of her body language told everyone she nearly was grieving.

"I think it's time I went home, maybe I'll be back," Helena put on her bravest smile.

"But you can't leave now!" Molly was panicking.

"Yes, I can and I will. Sherlock doesn't need me. I'm simply an accessory in his life. You and John are important, you need to stay, not me," Helena answered, still very calm.

"I'm not sure I can make it if he's not okay, and-," she hesitated, not knowing how to continue.

"And-?" Helena fished.

"And I'm not sure my heart can handle it if he is okay," Molly admitted and focused on the floor.

"Oh, Molly," Helena smiled. "I'll tell you a little secret, one you can see proof of in the bed behind that window,"

Molly searched Helena's face curiously.

"What?" she whispered.

"Sherlock, is extraordinary. But in the end, he's just a man," She turned and went to leave. Molly called after her.

"Will you come back?" Molly asked.

"Maybe," Helena said, waved behind her and walked out the door.

* * *

**So, there it was. The last part of this story. I've started to just call this Part 1 of 3 of 4 stories. Haven't quite decided yet.**

**But! the new story I promised you, or rather Part 2, will be called Accepting New Life and I think the first chapter will be out in the end of May. I was going to wait with publishing this story until the first chapter was finished, but I just couldn't wait! **


End file.
